


Latte Art

by imparfait



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shop, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Community: rs_games, M/M, R/S Games 2012
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-18
Updated: 2012-11-18
Packaged: 2017-11-18 23:06:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/566265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imparfait/pseuds/imparfait
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sirius buries himself under dreams and words on paper.  Until Remus, at least.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Latte Art

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2012 R/S Games, Team Sirius. Oodles of kudos to adistantsun, the very best beta. Her work was thorough and any mistakes left are solely mine.

In the mornings, from five to noon, Sirius slings lattes. He bites down on his lip while he steams milk just right, froths up foam like it's fine art. He tamps down espresso while he listens to James bitch under his breath from the other side of the cramped workspace. The rush ends at ten, once everyone is tucked up in their offices. It's just a shuffle of customers after that. The bell dings every so often: mothers pushing prams, teenagers bunking off school and giggling under their breath while they check their text messages.

He clocks off at noon when Lily comes in to relieve him. James works the long shift, six 'til five. Sirius supposes James earns the bitching rights but it's James' coffee shop, his dream, and Sirius doesn't feel like he needs to put in more than his fair share to James' career. He has his own desires, fantasies in the back of his head that shift and change every day.

Some days he wants to be an astronaut, but he stubs out that dream with every cigarette. Even the Russians probably aren't lax enough for a pack-a-day smoker. Secret spy tops the list on Tuesdays, when he sees that bloke with a government ID--just a barcode and the royal crest, no name or department--but that dream fizzles when he remembers he's shit at lying.

He takes the bus home at twelve-twenty. It's always the rattly one. He can turn his iPod up as much as he likes but he can still hear the strange clacking in the engine that makes him uncomfortable. At twelve-twenty-two he gets bored of resting his head against the window and pulls a notebook out of his bag. 

Sirius only writes longhand on the bus. The first half of the notebook is worn from being flipped through a thousand times. Every new page is crisp and fresh, bent in the corners from being shoved in next to his laptop, but still unturned. His handwriting is barely legible, mostly from trying to get the words out of his head before they evaporate, but partly from the jump and rumble of a bus dragging through an endless litany of potholes. He has the route memorized and he knows exactly when the bus is going to ruin his words.

This is a constant. His taste in music changes with every passing week, he thinks about different careers every day of his life while he watches men in suits drop fivers on cappuccinos he'd never be able to afford on his shitty salary. But writing is beautiful, and personal, and the only thing held over from the childhood he's spent eleven years erasing from every corner of his head.

He barely has enough time to jot out five paragraphs before he has to signal for his stop and hop off the bus. James and he share a flat that is equally rotten in placement and decor: it's a fifth floor walk-up that has him wheezing by the time he hits the top stair. There's mildew on the wall by the kitchen window and the bathroom smells like something Sirius can't place. No amount of air fresheners or open windows manage to get it out. The place is cheap, though, and his. Sometimes that's all that matters.

The living room should've been declared a hazardous waste dump a week ago. He's certain there are coffee cups that are going to grow legs and scurry off any day now, but he passes through the dumpy front room and goes for the window that leads out to the fire escape. The stairs left Sirius longing for a cigarette. For all the mildew and unrecognisable smells, James has a nose for nicotine; he can smell it from the second floor landing. Some days, it's worth the endless stream of curses and paranoid rants about second-hand smoke. Today the sky is almost-clear and the air tastes like autumn, so he ducks out onto the fire escape and thinks.

Sirius eats whatever's in the fridge after his smoke. There are day old chips that he microwaves and a ham sandwich he's almost sure isn't his, but he got up at four-oh-three today and he doesn't care. He bites down on the sandwich as he toes off his shoes and wonders what's missing.

He's been writing the same book since primary school. A thousand drafts haven't been enough (that might be an overstatement, he concedes to himself). The microwave dings. He fishes the vinegar out of the cabinet as he contemplates story arcs. He settles at the table with a soggy plate of chips and the last two bites of his sandwich. Maybe, Sirius thinks, he needs a nap.

* * *

* * *

The coffee shop opens late on weekends. There's no six o'clock rush for mochas before work, just the nine-thirty shuffle of hangovers looking for a double espresso. Sirius unlocks the door at eight on the dot but it takes half an hour for the first customer to stumble in. The molasses-slow pour of customers means Sirius spends the first two hours of his shift covertly editing chapters three through five while James bakes croissants in the back room.

Potter's hungover and the customers are too. Sirius might be the only person awake at this hour without a headache. He wonders when he decided, at some point between eighteen and twenty-seven, to give up on being social. He supposes it wasn't a choice, just something that happened between falling out with Peter and James catching Lily after so many years of running. He doesn't have any friends left for the weekends. Just words on a text document that he deletes at least once a week in a fit of anger.

It's Saturday after ten and the shop is empty. That means two things to Sirius: getting paid for a whole lot of nothing and that _he_ is going to show up at any moment.

For the last six months, Saturdays have meant Cafe Au Lait With Too Much Sugar. Sirius tries very hard every Saturday not to get his hopes up. It probably speaks volumes about him that the highlight of his week is surreptitiously eyeing a twenty-something man with a penchant for sugar and a sketch pad.

James pokes his head out of the back room at the same time the bell chimes at the door. Sirius looks awkwardly between them, from James to the swinging door, until James shoos him towards the register and thus the customer. Sirius realises a second too late that it's Cafe Au Lait and he hasn't had time to steel his nerves.

"Hullo," the sandy-haired sugar fiend says.

"Hi," Sirius answers. Writing dialogue, it seems, has done nothing for Sirius' social skills. "Uhm. Cafe Au Lait?"

Green-eyes smiles at him. Sirius feels his stomach somersault. "I'm getting predictable."

Sirius shrugs and turns toward the coffee urn as fast as his feet can manage. He almost drops the mug but catches himself just in time. Making a fool of himself in front of Cafe Au Lait is just going to make his weekend worse. Once the cup is half full with coffee, muscle memory gets him through the rest. In the two minutes it takes to make the drink, Sirius can soak it all in: the sandy hair, the light green eyes, the charcoal-smudged fingers.

"Do you always work?"

Sirius blinks rapidly as he hands back the change. "You only come in on Saturdays," he says, and kicks himself for pointing out the obvious. That he notices at all is too much. He sees a few hundred faces every day between five and noon, half that on Saturdays and Sundays. He shouldn't notice a charcoal-smudged man with shaggy hair and a tweed jacket who comes in for a few hours once a week.

"I work down the road," Cafe Au Lait says with a dismissive wave toward the door. "I see you wiping down the tables when I head in."

Sirius cleans the tables between six and six-fifteen (or whenever James manages to get his arse down to work). He takes his time and cranks up whatever he can find with a good beat. It's a ritual, and part of that is letting the rest of the world fade away while he slides a damp cloth across dirty tables in preparation for a hundred cups of coffee to stain them again. He's never noticed Cafe Au Lait watching him before. It gives him goosebumps thinking about it.

"So, do you?"

Cafe Au Lait still hasn't moved from the counter. Sirius barely remembers the question. Then he does and he feels his cheeks heating up. He used to be capable of holding a conversation. "No," he says. "Well. Most of the time."

Something shatters in the back room. "A little help, Sirius!" James shouts.

"He's hopeless," Sirius tells Cafe Au Lait as he swings the backroom door open to save James from whatever mess he managed to make. He's never wanted to walk away from the till less in his life.

* * *

* * *

It's Tuesday. The worst day of the week in Sirius' opinion. It's the only time he crosses paths with Peter. Six years, ten months, and fifteen days haven't soothed the burn of twenty hours in an interrogation room for a crime he didn't commit. He focuses on the tabletops. There're dark stains from the bottoms of mugs and paper cups, melted remnants of ice cream from the shop next door, the dirty spray of raindrops from the night before.

He's listening to a classic rock mix. He starts his morning with club music but by the time he gets out to wipe the tables, he needs something that preaches the gospel of rock and roll. Cafe Au Lait taps him on the shoulder as Journey gives him an order not to stop believing.

(Sometimes he does, mostly within himself, but it's a shameful thought he buries under dreams and words on paper.)

Sirius pops one earbud out of his ear and grins like a probable fool. "It's Tuesday," he says like a question he doesn't expect to be answered.

"My students await," Cafe Au Lait says, which explains nothing at all. "I realised, after I left on Saturday. I never told you my name."

"I never asked," Sirius mutters.

One sandy eyebrow arches up toward Cafe Au Lait's hairline and Sirius thinks suddenly that he should know his name. He thinks about him often enough.

"Err," Sirius manages. He drops his rag to the table. "That came out wrong, sorry."

Cafe Au Lait holds out his hand and Sirius takes it, cursing himself for not bothering to wipe his own off first. "Remus," Cafe Au Lait says.

"Sirius," Sirius answers. "Good to finally meet you properly."

"Same," Remus says. "I figured, you know, it was about time I introduced myself to the man who supplies my caffeine."

Sirius chuckles and then realises they've been holding onto each others' hands longer than necessary. Remus apparently gets the same idea and they both pull back. Remus, Sirius notices, is all angles and sharp lines. He likes his men like that, thin and sharp: the kind of body that hides strength in every shadow. 

"So, do you ever get a day off?" Remus asks him.

Sirius takes in a breath and explains the whole sorry story, how Gideon and Marietta quit a month ago, in the same week, and James has only just managed to hire on a new girl who isn't up to spec yet. It's been three weeks since he's had a sleep-in and it's wearing on him, but he deals with it for James.

It's going on six-thirty when Sirius remembers he's supposed to be working. He makes his excuses and goes inside, where James is equal parts amused and irritated. Somehow this makes Tuesday more bearable, even though Peter will be in before he knows it and James is going to tease him for hours over the artist in the corner on Saturdays. 

* * *

* * *

A week comes and goes. Clara learns how to use the espresso machine. For the first time in a month, Sirius is granted two days off. His internal clock still wakes him up at half past eight on Sunday. For a moment he panics, thinking he forgot to set his alarm and the shop is going to open late. There aren't any angry text messages on his phone, though, and he can hear James puttering around in the kitchen. He remembers he's been granted a respite from the incessant grind of beans and the nauseating smell of pastries baking.

He thinks he might be the only person in the world who resents having free access to all the biscuits he can eat. 

Sirius groans and rolls over, tangling himself in his blankets and stuffing his face into his pillow. If he's allowed to sleep in 'til the afternoon, he thinks, he should take advantage of it. His body has other ideas, however, and he lasts nine minutes packed under his covers before he's practically vibrating with pent-up energy. It's been weeks since he's gone out for something other than food or work.

James, the insufferable wanker, has a cup of tea waiting for him. It's still hot. Sirius wonders sometimes how his best friend knows him so well. They've lived together for years (together they've enough for a two-bedroom with a view), but living together doesn't make a man privy to knowing when his flatmate is going to wake up.

"Morning," James says.

"Morning," Sirius grumbles in reply. "Off to see Peter?"

"Later," James says. "Got to go into the shop for a few hours."

"You could use a day off more than me," Sirius says and kicks himself for it. It's James' shop, James' dream. Much as their lives are intertwined almost beyond recognition, they aren't actually the same person. He pulls a salary from the shop, he's not a partner, and he's had enough of fifty-hour weeks to last a lifetime.

"Could, but that's dreaming," James answers, much too cheerily for someone who's been working twelve hours a day for a month. Maybe he loves it more than he lets on. "Anyway, I have it on good authority that you're going to be busy later."

Sirius slides into a chair and blows on his tea. Enough time around steam and near-boiling coffee means his fingers don't feel heat quite the same way his mouth does. "What do you mean? My laptop and my outline aren't exactly the life of the party."

"Cafe Au Lait," James says with a half-joking leer on his face. "He caught me yesterday, outside the shop. Asked if I was ever going to give you a day off. And for your number."

"You didn't," Sirius demands. He doesn't need to hear the rest of the story to know how it goes. James tries to set Sirius up with unusual frequency. Maybe he thinks Sirius is the same man he was at uni, always running off with some new bloke or other. He prefers watching from afar now. Fantasy has always been his playground. He finds more often than not that reality isn't up to par with the worlds he makes in his head.

"Oh I did," James answers. "He's your type. Squirrelly." 

"Squirrelly?" Sirius asks, incredulity laced through the bone-deep exhaustion one night's sleep hasn't managed to ease.

James nods and rinses his mug out. "Yes, with that tweed jacket. He's got glasses, you know. Hornrims. I think he's a librarian."

"He's an artist," Sirius supplies. His brain is on autopilot, caught between panic and curiosity.

James snorts. "And you're a writer," he says. "What you are and what you do, mate. Different things."

"What are you then, other than an arse?"

"A good friend," James says. "And one who's tired of watching you wallow."

Sirius rolls his eyes but finishes his tea. 

* * *

* * *

Remus texts in full sentences. There are no abbreviations and his punctuation sits tidy in all the right places. He's polite and surprisingly funny, with a penchant for chemistry jokes that make Sirius laugh softly to himself where he's curled on the couch. They make plans for the afternoon, at four, when Remus is done being a librarian or an artist, whichever. It's nearly one when it dawns on Sirius that they've spent an hour twiddling their thumbs over touchscreens, exchanging double entendres and carbon-based humour. 

Sirius straightens the living room for no particular reason other than the ball of nerves in his chest, pushing out against his ribs. He's not expecting to take Remus home--it's been a long time since he was that sort of man--but Sirius deals with nerves in two ways and writing is impossible when he loses focus. Cafe Au Lait has his brain misfiring in all directions.

Three-thirty-two rolls 'round quicker than Sirius wants it to. He doesn't feel ready, never feels ready for things like this really, not anymore. His world has been shrinking down, the people he interacts with dwindling to the core: James, Lily, James' Mum. He can't even fill a hand with the people he'd call friends. It's hard to conjure the strength to open the door, cross the road to the bus stop, and wait.

It would be easier not to show. Saturday would be awkward, sure, but Sirius' courage finds itself in the oddest corners. He wonders what happened to the brash young man with a motorbike and the world at his feet. It doesn't take long to remember, and by the time he does, he's pulling the stop cord and stepping down off the bus.

Remus is already sitting at the bench by the duck pond, though Sirius is eight minutes early by his watch. Sirius pauses at the edge of the grass and shoves his hands in his pockets. Instinct is telling him to bolt: the value of trust is never worth the price of betrayal. He knows how this story ends.

Six months of making up mythology for Cafe Au Lait leaves him wondering about the truth. He knows the answers are ten yards ahead of him. Remus looks up. He spots Sirius from across the path and a smile splits his face.

Sirius crosses the distance.

* * *

* * * 

The week becomes a blur of mochas and phone calls. Remus makes Tuesday bearable again when he wanders by the shop on his way in to work. He makes Wednesday better by randomly dotting the day with jokes. Sirius writes on Friday in a peculiar frenzy that has him tearing through pages of his notebook and nearly breaking the spacebar on his laptop.

Time slithers by and before Sirius knows it, it's Saturday again. The cafe is an empty, quiet blessing. He spends the morning nursing his own brand of hangover--the kind that comes from staying up too late, not one bought with pounds and pence. At nine forty-six he's editing chapter seven. He hates every word of it. His ring finger is married to the backspace key. The bell over the cafe door jingles. The sound yanks him out of the world in his head and back to the real one, to Remus coming in the door with his sketchpad and a fiver in his hand.

Sirius wonders if it's appropriate to charge someone who just texted him _physicists do it with uniform harmonic motion_ three minutes before he walked through the door.

"You look exhausted," Remus says by way of greeting.

"You flatter," Sirius replies. He's already half-finished with Remus' drink before he makes it to the counter. Muscle memory serves him best on days like this, when it's hard enough remembering his own name let alone a thousand recipes for drinks he won't touch. Sirius drinks his coffee black and his tea white. Sugar and vanilla powder amount to sacrilege in his good book.

Remus chuckles and leaves the fiver on the counter. "Just wondering what had you up all night."

"My book," Sirius mutters.

"Ah," Remus says. "The infamous manuscript."

Sirius shrugs. "It's about to make friends with a dustbin at the rate I'm going."

"Maybe you should take a break from it." Remus takes his thin paper cup and holds it with the sort of reverence only a caffeine fiend can have. He takes a cautious sip. Sirius finds a reverence of his own in the look that crosses Remus' face. "You know, take a step back."

Sirius shrugs and commits to nothing. He's terrified that if he takes a step back, he'll lose his footing and the whole world will come crashing down around him. The world in his head, the real one around him, either way, he's not sure he could handle it.

The truth is that it's too personal now. The book and his life have become the same thing. The parallels were there from the beginning. He took a creative writing class, when he was nineteen and still sure of himself. The professor told him to write what he knew, so he did. Now, when he reads what he's written, it's reading a biography. He's not sure he likes seeing his whole life laid out on paper, wrapped up in mythology and parables.

"Are you off again tomorrow?"

"Yeah," Sirius answers. He leans against the espresso machine and tries to remember how to flirt. It's been a long time.

"We could have an adventure of our own," Remus suggests. "Though it probably won't involve an elfin war."

Sirius laughs softly. "I could do without the war, honestly."

"I was thinking a pint, or a film or something?"

Sirius wants to point out that a trip to the cinema is hardly an adventure, but given the monotony of his life, Tesco seems like a foreign land these days. The adventure is in the offer anyway.

"Sounds fun," he finally answers.

Remus' expression is indescribable, even with all the adjectives Sirius knows tumbling through his head. "Around four?"

Sirius nods. James is standing by the door to the back room, trying to be invisible, listening to every word. Sirius waits until Remus takes his seat to make a rude gesture behind his back. James cackles madly and ducks out into the open with an armload of cups. 

* * *

* * *

They agree to meet out front of Sirius' flat on Sunday. (It still isn't clean by any definition of the word, although perhaps no longer qualifies as a biohazard. There are no more coffee cups threatening to gain sentience on the low table by the sofa.) He locks the door at three minutes to four and almost trips over his own feet to get down the stairs.

Remus turns the corner six minutes late. Another few seconds and Sirius would've been compulsively checking his phone.

"Sorry," Remus apologizes in a rush of breath as he reaches the stoop. "Bus was a bit late. I hope you haven't been waiting long?"

Sirius shakes his head and hops to his feet. "Nah," he answers, because six minutes isn't a long time even though five minutes waiting felt like an eternity. They both stand at the bottom of the stairs just long enough for Sirius to get twitchy and start walking. Remus falls into step next to him.

Remus smiles. The crinkles in the corners of his eyes remind Sirius that he's never asked how old Remus is. His face has that look, the sort where he could be twenty-five or thirty-five. He suddenly wants to ask but he bites his tongue--not exactly a great conversation starter, but then neither are the other things on his mind like _why are you interested?_ or _your glasses are hot_. 

"So, the cinema or the pub?" Remus asks. He has a cheerful spring to his step that makes Sirius grin like a fool.

"Why choose one?" Sirius asks.

Remus pauses mid-step and turns on the ball of his foot. "There's an idea I can get behind. I may have to keep you, Sirius Black."

Sirius isn't sure what that means exactly but the thought of Remus and keeping warms him up against the early-autumn chill of the afternoon. They walk to the cinema. It isn't far and the bus is always crowded in the evenings, and anyway, it soothes Sirius' nerves.

Remus talks about his students on the way--both sets. He's a history teacher by day at the comprehensive down the road from the shop. On Sundays he runs an art workshop that produces, judging from the picture messages Sirius gets every now and then, some hilariously unfortunate artwork.

It's the history students that make for the best stories, though. Maybe it's because Sirius can remember being a teenager vividly, but the homework excuses and creative attempts at cheating have Sirius nearly falling over with laughter.

"Thing is," Remus says as they turn a corner, "I don't understand why they think I'd believe half of them."

"No one's going to fall for _my Aunt Beatrice ate my homework_ ," Sirius agrees.

Remus snickers. He shoves his hands into his pockets and shakes his head. "That's not even the worse of them. The cheating, though. Don't they realise I was a student once, too?"

"I cheated creatively in school," Sirius says. "The old standbys will always get you caught."

"Exactly!" Remus agrees. There's a smirk on his face when he turns a little, not missing a step. "Leaving a book open under the desk in front of you? Awful."

"Pathetic," Sirius agrees. "I started off with complicated foot-tapping schemes."

Remus pauses on the pavement. "What do you mean?"

"Well, James. We came up with it together." Sirius shrugs. "World History, actually. Our teacher only gave multiple choice tests." He goes on and explains the whole complicated system to Remus, who looks caught between admiration and concern for his students' academic integrity.

By the time they start walking again, Remus is laughing about the time nearly all the answers were E, which involved a conspicuous amount of foot-tapping. A warm feeling spreads through Sirius' chest.

"So," Remus says between fits of laughter, "what do you want to do with your life?"

Sirius pauses to catch his breath. It's a loaded question that strips the laughter out of both of them. Remus is watching him carefully, like the question he wants answered isn't the one he asked. 

"I don't know," Sirius finally admits. "There's the writing, of course, but that's not really practical."

Remus' eyes sparkle with curiosity. "Why not?"

"Well, it's taken me a decade to write a book I hate," Sirius says. "As careers go, not very profitable." 

He tries to keep it light, but the truth of it is like a punch to the stomach. Admitting that most days the one thing he wants more than anything else seems unattainable tastes bitter on his tongue. Sometimes he wishes he could be satisfied with some mundane career, but he knows slinging lattes is a waste of a life.

Remus watches his face for a while. "One book doesn't constitute a failure, you know. That's like one of my students giving up if they fail a quiz."

Sirius shrugs and stuffs his hands into the pockets of his jeans. "Ten years isn't a quiz. It's bombing your A-Levels."

"I have a feeling you never failed a test in your life," Remus says.

"I never did," Sirius admits. "Never really studied much, either."

"Of course," Remus says. "What with all that cheating." Remus' smile makes Sirius want to cup his hands around Remus' face and kiss him. The muscles in Sirius' arms twitch. Contentment blooms in his chest.

Sometimes the world reminds Sirius that taking chances is better than playing it safe.

* * *

* * *

It's Friday and they're stargazing, apparently one of Remus' favourite things to do. They have a bag full of snacks and a thermos of hot chocolate to share between them. Sirius' contribution is the blanket, a black and white striped monstrosity that Remus is currently sprawled on, eyes turned skyward, head pillowed on his arms. Sirius is on his side, eyes on Remus instead of the dim stars he can barely see over the pollution of city lights.

"So," Sirius says as he reaches for the hot chocolate, "Argon walks into a bar-"

"Heard it," Remus interrupts. "Although that's a good one. You've been researching."

Sirius tips the thermos at him and grins. "It's a new form of procrastination. Beats minesweeper any day."

Remus laughs and looks over at him. "I hope it's not too distracting."

"Still on track to finish the book when I'm fifty, don't fear." Remus makes a face at him. The quarter-moon and the gunmetal grey sky that made the stars so hard to see cast enough light on the two of them for Sirius to see Remus' scrunched up nose and his crossed eyes.

Remus steals the thermos and takes a sip. "You'll finish before then," he says.

"Forty-nine, then."

"Don't be so down on yourself."

Chagrin settles into Sirius' bones. "Sorry," he says. "It just kind of feels hopeless."

"If you want hopeless, you should read some of the papers I got yesterday on the French revolution."

Sirius laughs, grateful for the change of subject. "That bad?"

"Awful," Remus answers. "Half of them are indecipherable." 

"For example?"

"One student blamed Stalin."

Sirius blinks. "For the _French revolution_?"

Remus nods and chuckles. "My mum was right when she said teaching was a thankless profession."

"Got something in common with my job, then."

"I think most jobs are thankless."

"Neurosurgery," Sirius murmurs, which draws another laugh out of Remus. 

Sirius craves nights like this now. There's a kind of poetry woven through them, trading hum-drum stories about their day, sharing hot chocolate under a blanket of stars. The October chill nips at his fingertips but inside he's warm. It's been so long, too long, since nights have conjured anything but nightmares in the back of his mind. 

Remus fiddles with the thermos. 

"Why did you go into history?" Sirius asks. Remus talks about a lot of things, but when he's talking about supernovae and galactic collisions, a different sort of passion sparks in his eyes.

"Why do you make coffee?" Remus counters. He lets out a huff of air and shrugs. "We probably have different reasons. History was easy. I'm good at it." He taps his own temple and grins. "I can memorize like nobody else."

"You seem to know your way around the periodic table."

"I'm rubbish at calculus. An utter failure at maths." Remus grins but there's sadness in the curve of his lips. "Much to my mum's dismay. She's a statistician."

He might be a barista and Remus a history teacher, but occupation only defines a man insomuch as he lets it. He tells Remus as much and earns another grin. There's nothing hidden in the corners of this one and Sirius finds himself mirroring it.

"If that's the case," Remus says, "what does that make you?"

"A recluse?" Sirius jokes. "But honestly, I like to think I'm still figuring it out."

"You are just full of surprises, aren't you?" Remus murmurs as he screws the lid back on the thermos.

There is, Sirius knows, a time and place for caution. He's spent six years, eleven months, and two days living in it. He's good at making slow changes. This thing with Remus is an aberration. It's still fragile and would be easy to crush with a misstep.

Somewhere inside him, something breaks. He can feel impulse creeping through his veins. He reaches out, slowly, deliberately, because habits are not easily broken. His thumb brushes against Remus' collarbone. Sirius' breath gets stuck in his throat as he leans close enough to make out the freckles dusted over the bridge of Remus' nose. 

"If you don't kiss me-" Remus begins, but never gets to finish. It's as much a challenge as it is a confirmation of everything Sirius has been thinking for the past sixteen days. Trading jokes, the afternoons in the park, and nights like this: on a blanket under the autumn sky, sharing history and hot chocolate. It all leads to this.

He takes the leap.

As first kisses go, it is neither a disaster nor a revelation. Angels don't sing. The world isn't spun off its axis. Sirius thought about kissing Remus before a few dozen times. None of his fantasies played out like this. They involved less nose-bumping, definitely. Remus' lips tastes like hot chocolate. He hasn't shaved.

Life is a story, not a storybook, Sirius thinks in a fleeting moment of clarity before Remus nips at Sirius' bottom lip. The only thing Sirius has time to worry about is whether or not he tastes like an ashtray. Remus tugs him closer, chest to chest. Sirius drowns in _feeling_ , though he isn't sure exactly what--maybe everything. 

Remus pulls away too soon. Sirius sucks in a shaky breath and turns his head to the side, ghosting his lips across the line of Remus' jaw. 

"Been waiting for you to do that."

"How'd you know I would?" Sirius asks.

"You think I came for the over-priced coffee?" Remus laughs softly. Sirius closes his eyes and leans against him. His arm is falling asleep, contorted underneath him, but he doesn't want to move. 

"What do you mean?"

"The cafe," Remus says, like that answers the question. 

Sirius shifts, frees his arm, and peers down at Remus' face curiously. "I don't get it."

Remus shrugs and, for the first time since they met, looks bashful. "You're infuriatingly good-looking, you know," he says. "And not as inconspicuous as you think you are."

* * *

* * *

Saturday passes in a blur of lattes. The distracting monotony of customers is broken only when James comes out to tease him and later, when Remus comes in for his cafe au lait. They make plans across the counter for Sunday, to try out a restaurant Sirius has never heard of. 

It's a cozy little Spanish place, stuffed between a bookshop and bakery. Remus chats about his art class in between Sirius' stories about horrid customers. It's an easy sort of banter, the back-and-forth about their days. Remus paints a hilarious mental picture of his father, the wide-eyed, invention crazy engineer. They share dessert--the most delicious flan Sirius has ever had--and Sirius tells Remus about running away, how his parents hardly even cared, and how much Sirius adores James' mother for a thousand reasons.

Monday brings a trip to the science museum. Sirius thought it up, to spend a day watching Remus' face light up. He wonders if Remus scours the heavens in pursuit of wonder in the same way Sirius searches every face he sees for a story.

Remus invites him back to his flat on Thursday, kisses turning to touches, hands and fingers everywhere. There's a mystery in the crook of Remus' neck, adventure scrawled across his chest. Remus makes soft little sighs when Sirius kisses him. The sound echoes around in Sirius' head as he walks home with a grin plastered across his face and his shirt rumpled.

The weekend comes round again before Sirius can catch his breath. Remus calls him on Sunday to invite him over for dinner and drinks. Sirius doesn't even stop to think before he says he'll be there at six, and yes, he loves red wine. After he hangs up, he thinks about packing an overnight bag, but decides that might be presumptuous. He hadn't wanted to leave on Thursday night--wouldn't have but for work in the morning.

At six-oh-one he knocks on Remus' door. He can smell chicken baking, hears Remus undoing the locks, and can't help the anticipation that curls up warm underneath his ribs. Remus pulls him into a kiss when he opens the door. Sirius smiles against his lips and lets himself get swept into the little dining room.

* * *

* * *

Sirius stumbles home at quarter after six. He could have slept all day wrapped in Remus' warmth, but Remus was up before dawn to get ready for work. Somehow, despite the night before, it felt odd to stay lounging in Remus' bed with Remus gone.

James is awake at the kitchen table. He only has one mug of tea. Good, Sirius thinks smugly. Sometimes he still manages to be unpredictable. James shoots him a knowing look from behind his fringe as Sirius crosses the kitchen and starts the coffee pot.

"You didn't come home last night," James says. There's accusation there, under the sleep-deprived rumble of his voice.

"Did you figure that out all on your own?" Sirius asks. He shuffles through the cupboard for a mug, then leans against the counter, staring down the coffee pot. He could sleep, probably until the mid-afternoon, but there's a plot knocking against the side of his skull and dialogue in his fingertips. Sex has always been inspiration to him. It's no surprise that the pads of his fingers are itching for his keyboard.

"Well, the walk of shame is as good an indicator as any," James mumbles. "But yes, I checked your room. The librarian?"

"Teacher," Sirius corrects. "And yes."

"Good on you," James says. He sounds like he means it. "It's been a while."

Sirius ticks the time off in his head. Six years, ten months, twenty-three days. It's an easy count. "Yeah," he admits.

"Worth the wait?"

"It was brilliant, if that's what you're asking," Sirius says as he pours himself a cup of coffee. "I'll spare you the details."

"I'm grateful for that," James says. "But, honestly. I was getting worried."

"What, that I'd end up all alone?"

"Surrounded by cats and typewriters," James adds. "A bit. Mostly that you weren't happy."

James thankfully knows better than to push when Sirius doesn't answer. He's never sure if he is happy or not. It's hard enough to figure out for himself, never mind verbalise it to James, so he says nothing at all. Instead, he stirs his coffee, blows futilely at the steam wafting off the surface, and shrugs.

"You going to stick with the librarian?"

" _Teacher_ ," Sirius corrects again. "Sure, for now. I like him."

James drops his teacup into the dishwater in the sink. "Good," he says as he slings his bag over his shoulder. "It's about time."

* * *

* * *

Time slips by too easily. Sirius loses track of the days, marks them not with crosses on his calendar but with text messages and phone calls, nights at Remus'. He doesn't count faces anymore at work. For years, he's let the world pass by undisturbed. He's lived outside it for so long he's getting lost in it now.

He spends All Saints Day in Remus' flat. Between wine and Remus, he forgets to even remember.

Midnight rolls in like a thunderstorm. Remus' watch beeps on the nightstand and Sirius starts with the shock of the date. November second, he thinks to himself. Seven years, one day.

He slides out of bed and into Remus' robe. He knows what's coming, can feel it in the air like a charge, making his skin tingle. A minute's work in the dark produces his phone and then he's out on the fire escape with a cigarette to his lips, staring down at the screen.

Twelve-oh-seven comes with a shrill ring. He mutes the noise, stares down at the name on the screen, and slides it into the pocket of the robe. He won't talk to Peter tonight. A chorus of beeps signal the usual: a voicemail he'll never listen to and a text message that he knows by heart. _I'm sorry, Sirius,_ it always starts.

He's wondering if Regulus will ever get out of prison when the window opens. He looks up, catches Remus' shadow just as he slides out into the moonlight, and tries to smile. He knows it doesn't work, sees his own expression mirrored across Remus' face.

"What's wrong?" Remus asks. He has good intentions, but nothing good can come of talking about this.

Sirius sighs. "It's a long story," he says.

"I have a lot of time," Remus says. It's true. Neither of them have to be up in the morning. Remus' class at the community center isn't until the afternoon.

Sirius can't find the words. The whole wretched mess eats at him so badly. Every part of him changed that night. He spends too much of every day pushing his regret, his shame, his infuriation at everyone--even himself--into the back of his head. He hasn't told the story since Lily picked him up at seven in the morning outside the police station.

He frames it as a parable, a fairy tale: a brother who stole a motorbike, an enemy who died, a friend who lied. He doesn't cast himself as a saint or a martyr because neither one is true. At twenty-one, he was a bastard. Karma caught up. He pays his penance like this, counting the days and the hours that Regulus is still losing to a stupid decision. Maybe he's counting his own hours, the ones he nearly lost because Peter never had a spine, still doesn't, and lied through his teeth seven years ago about where Sirius was that night.

It takes thirteen minutes to tell the story. By the time he lets his words taper off, ending with a trial he followed in the papers instead of in person, Remus is hunched next to him with his arms around Sirius' shoulders. There are tear tracks all over Remus' face. Sirius hates them because he put them there. Maybe he should have been honest from the start; baggage isn't something he can check at the door of a relationship

"That's terrible," Remus finally says.

Sirius nods. He has no words for what he feels. Everything feels inadequate. It's part of the reason he's never finished the book. Chapters nine through eleven are that year, distorted by fantasy and wrapped up in elf magic. 

"Hey," Remus says softly. "Look at me, Sirius."

Sirius looks up from his clasped hands. Remus is a pretty crier, he thinks, or maybe it's just the way the moonlight reflects off his face. 

"It's not your fault," he says. It's the first time anyone's said that to Sirius. Not that he's given anyone the chance, not really. He doesn't speak to Peter. Lily treads on eggshells whenever Regulus' name comes up. James knows better than to ask but there are worry-lines on his forehead that never disappear.

"Was my motorbike."

Remus cups Sirius' face between his hands and curls his thumbs under Sirius' cheekbones. "Not your fault," he repeats. "You didn't do anything."

That's half the problem, Sirius thinks. But he doesn't say anything, just leans into Remus' touch.

November second slips quietly by. Sirius doesn't count the minutes.

* * *

* * *

Autumn turns into winter in the usual way, the days growing shorter and the chill biting harder at Sirius' nose when he finds himself outside. The tables in front of the cafe are dragged into storage. James starts stocking peppermints in a little jar by the till. The back room smells like shortbread. Sweaters are hidden under coats and scarves. James hoards Christmas decorations in the flat hallway, waiting impatiently to deck the flat with garlands and mistletoe. 

Sirius keeps himself busy between Remus and the shop. By December, they're fully staffed again and his days working feel like days off. He doesn't mind the endless stream of mochas from harried Christmas shoppers if it means there's someone else to mind the till when he's dying for the loo.

While Sirius makes hot chocolates for mitten-clad children, Remus sends him a steady stream of promises in bits and bytes. On Saturdays, James gives him a long lunch break, so there is time for conversation over sandwiches. Between triple espressos and peppermint lattes, Sirius learns Remus' secrets. His aren't as awful--childhood illness, broken home, too much time spent with textbooks instead of friends. Remus has a drawer in Sirius' room and every night Sirius starts to say words that terrify him, so he wraps them up in a kiss instead.

By the time James drags in a Christmas tree, the flat is clean, two parts Sirius and one part Remus, who clucks his tongue at the dirty dishes and shakes his head at the clothes strewn across the hallway floor.

December is all about counting days, but never days since, always days until. Five until his birthday, twelve until Christmas, nineteen until the New Year. Sirius spends a week with his laptop and a quilt, sometimes on his fire escape but mostly on Remus' couch. He tears through his outline because he knows the end now. Gill and Tulwin, his little elves, finally get the ending that they deserve. He finishes the book on a Friday-almost-Saturday, with eight minutes to spare before midnight. It takes hours to print it all out. It barely fits in the binder Sirius has for it.

Saturday brings Remus to the cafe at ten seventeen. Sirius has his drink waiting, sitting without any ceremony on top of the binder. Remus looks at it curiously, like the answers to a question he never asked, and takes it without a word. Instead of drawing, he flips pages. Sirius pours his nervousness into every mug, tries to tamp down his worries with every double espresso. He doesn't know what will come of letting someone read the book.

Lunch comes before he knows it. James nearly has to push him away from the espresso machine. He walks into the back and grabs his coat. He shuffles through his pockets for a pack of cigarettes as he goes out the door. Remus doesn't follow. His eyes are glued to the pages in front of him. Sirius doesn't know if that's a good thing or not.

Remus joins him after a bit. Sirius stubs out his cigarette against the wall of the building. He bites his lip and watches Remus sip his coffee. "So?" he asks.

"I'm not finished, you know," Remus says.

Sirius rolls his eyes. "Obviously," he says. "But so far?"

It's prodding and he knows it. Trusting someone with his book is taking more out of him than he imagined. Remus will probably be gentle about it. Surely, Sirius thinks, he wouldn't come out and say that it's shit.

"No previews to the review, Mr Black," Remus says. He's smiling against the rim of his cup, though, and that's enough for Sirius.

* * *

* * *

Remus hands the binder back on December twenty-eighth. The pages are littered with emerald green ink--not red, which surprises Sirius, but it's so like Remus to soften the blow. He flips idly through the pages during lulls in business. The comments overwhelm the edits, but Remus is no English professor. Sirius doesn't waste his time imagining that the book's too good for red ink and crossed out passages. He knows if he wants stark, ruthless honesty about his style and tone, he will have to find it elsewhere.

But Sirius didn't give Remus the book for him to rip it to shreds. Somehow Remus knows this, knew it from the start, because the cramped cursive writing is hardly critical. It's easy for Sirius to get lost in the story that Remus' comments make. 

When Tulwin the elf makes a fool out of himself in front of the princess, there's an emerald-green smile and _James?_ written in the margin. Remus sees the story Sirius folded into a fairy tale and, shockingly, he hasn't gone running off. He draws smiles and writes notes like _Tulwin's lucky to have Gill as a brother_ instead. Sirius isn't sure what he expected from Remus reading the book, but even the occasionally snarky comments ( _Honestly, Sirius, I doubt the king of Twinely loves every one of Tulwin's atoms._ ) make him grin like an idiot.

The last page isn't one of his. It's thick paper, not from a printer, folded in thirds, and tucked into the back sleeve. It's a drawing--one of Remus'--full of intricate detail; there is Sirius' world, brought painstakingly to life. And there's a note scribbled in tiny print at the bottom:

_S-  
A cover for your book. It needed one and I tried my very best. Those elves with all their magic words stirred my imagination. So here are some magic words of my own:_

_I love you,  
R._

Three words. Two seconds. Sirius starts a new count.


End file.
